First Light
by HopefulR
Summary: #11 in the Reconnecting Series. Sequel to Touching and Touched. On the morning after Lorian and Karyn's wedding, several vignettes take a look at our extended family, and other characters, to see what is on the horizon. Mostly T; only 3 chapters rated M.
1. Part I

**First Light  
#11 in the Reconnecting Series  
**by HopefulR

Rating: PG-13 for now, with a few R-rated romantic interludes to come  
Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.  
Genre: Drama, romance, ensemble, AU  
Spoilers: Through "Terra Prime"  
Summary: Sequel to my story "...Touching and Touched." Early on the morning after Lorian and Karyn's wedding, a series of vignettes takes a look at our extended family, and several other characters, some new to the series, to see what is on the horizon.

A/N: Thanks go to my betas boushh and TJ, and to pookha for inspiring me with her musings.

The character T'Shara first appeared in my story "Let Me Be Her." (Note: "Let Me Be Her" is R-rated.) Reading that story is not necessary to follow this one, but it does serve as backstory.

* * *

**First Light**

**Part I**

Chapter One: _Soval_

_July 11, 2154  
Vulcan Embassy  
San Francisco, Earth_

The beach below the Vulcan compound was just beginning to lighten as Soval padded barefoot onto the sand, wrapped in extra robes to ward off the pre-dawn chill. He knelt before his makeshift meditation table, a flat-topped slab of stone, and lit the solitary candle that was sealed onto the rock by rivulets of dried wax. As he watched the flame dance in the faint breeze, he listened to the waves lapping against the beach, and gradually focused his attention inward. He had been sensing a pattern in recent events...a number of turning points on the horizon, for the individuals whose lives were most closely intertwined with his.

In a few hours, Commanders T'Pol and Tucker would challenge Starfleet's long-held policy that if two of its personnel became romantically involved, they would be incapable of maintaining their objectivity when posted to the same ship.

Captain Archer—haunted for months by the war, still grieving for his lost friend Admiral Forrest, and robbed of the chance to return to the Expanse—seemed finally on the verge of something positive. The shy smiles the captain had exchanged with the lady bartender at Callahan's Jazz Club last night had not escaped Soval's notice. He hoped Archer had found an understanding soul.

Earth, which had chafed for so long under the too-watchful eye of the High Command, would now be making her own way in the galaxy, with Starfleet as her representative. Starfleet and the new Vulcan High Council were already in discussions regarding a formal Earth/Vulcan alliance. It would be interesting to witness the steps Starfleet would take in the coming months to demonstrate her newfound independence—overtures to other species, perhaps—as well as the reactions those steps might engender from isolationist groups such as Terra Prime.

_Columbia_ would set out on her maiden voyage, journeying to the Delphic Expanse to make further contact with the descendents of humans long since spirited away from Earth. It was appropriate, Soval thought, considering the ship's crew included two of the complement of _E²_, who were themselves over a century removed from Earth. Hopefully, _Columbia_ would also locate an Illyrian ship slowly limping homeward, crippled by the ill fortunes of war.

Commander Lorian and Lieutenant Archer were setting out on that new starship, in a new marriage, newly bonded. Before they departed, Soval would assist Lorian in determining the extent of his nascent telepathic ability. After a century, Lorian would at last be able to embrace this aspect of his Vulcan heritage...though Soval doubted the commander's thoughts were consumed with mind-melding at the moment.

Soval had been pleased to hear that Lorian was being considered for the captaincy of the NX-03, _Intrepid_. It was gratifying to know that he and the hybrid members of his former crew had found a place of belonging in Starfleet, where they were judged by their merits, not condemned for their alien heritage. Forrest had rejoiced in their differences. How Vulcan of him.

_I miss you, old friend. How human of __me__._

It was a consequence of living a span twice as long as these shorter-lived, frailer beings. Acquaintanceships and lives passed away all too soon. One became accustomed to it, after a fashion...but a precious few relationships ran deep. Those losses, Soval knew, would linger, sharp and stinging, before they finally softened to fond remembrance.

He would feel Maxwell Forrest's loss for a long time.

There was another, too...one whose absence, despite the logic of her leaving, had left a noticeable void in Soval's life. He had no right to miss her, of course. She had never been his to begin with; he had made certain of that. A woman of her youth and singular abilities deserved far better than a widower notably past his prime, of notably brittle temperament.

He often found himself wishing that it could have been otherwise.

Soval had thought of her often since Forrest's death, as he contemplated an array of regrets and missed opportunities. Now, with the deep joy of Lorian and Karyn's marriage bond still resonating in his consciousness, he was again assailed by thoughts of _her_. He even imagined he could smell her sweet scent, carried by the sea breeze from whatever far world she now called home. It drifted slowly over him, haunting him with memories of her warmth, her voice, her touch—

"_Kroykah!"_ He stood in frustration, kicking up a spray of sand. The candle sputtered and died, strangled by a shower of damp granules.

Why did he find it so impossible to put her loss behind him?

As he stared out at the blue-gray sea, he heard a voice close by. "It appears I have arrived just in time."

Soval turned in astonishment. He had not imagined that wondrously sweet aroma after all. T'Shara had returned.

She was wearing a traveling cloak over her robes, with her lustrous ebony hair—worn long, in contrast with Vulcan custom—woven into a single thick braid that extended below her waist. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered.

How long had it been...? Five years, eleven months, and three days since his last _pon farr_. T'Shara had come to him then, as she had every seventh year since she had first quenched his blood fever thirty-four years ago, renewing his passion for his work and his life in the process.

While Soval's resulting affection for T'Shara had been quite unexpected, her affection for him had been wholly unacceptable. After one glorious, maddening year in her company, he had finally compelled her to leave, to seek out a proper bondmate and see to her career. Nevertheless, she had returned each time the _pon farr_ overtook him, despite his insistence that she should stay away. The last time, he even attempted to refuse her, but the fever left him unable to resist her. Afterward, she departed while he slept, without even bidding him farewell. He concluded that she was sufficiently disillusioned to refrain from returning again, and he thought his hopes would finally pass away...

"I see that you remain insolent enough to ignore my counsel," he said stiffly.

T'Shara arched one lovely, upswept eyebrow. "And I see that you remain arrogant enough to believe your logic superior to mine."

"I am no younger," Soval stated flatly. He was finding to his annoyance that it was more difficult to present his argument while of sound mind, far removed from the helpless desperation of the blood fever. How had he let himself remain so attached to her, against all logic?

"Your age remains irrelevant to me," she responded calmly.

"For you to bind your life to mine would be an egregious waste of your potential," he maintained.

"Too much time has already been wasted," T'Shara stated, with that same equanimity. "For thirty years I did as you asked. I nurtured my career, diligently. I have, in fact, attained pre-eminence as a translator of ancient texts. But it has meant little to me, compared to what I lost."

"Why didn't you marry?" he asked. _Why didn't you put an end to your longing, and mine?_

"No other man has proven your equal," she said simply. "I chose to be alone rather than be discontent."

Soval was overwhelmed. He felt his hope sparking to life again...and this time, he did not try to stamp the flame out. "T'Shara, why are you here?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"I was in an outlying system when I learned of the embassy bombing, and Admiral Forrest's death." T'Shara's voice softened with compassion. "I grieve with you. I know he was your friend. It was his loss that compelled me here." She drew nearer. "Soval, I have been with no man, save you, since my husband died. I wish for no other, contemplate no other. We complement one another, you and I, in intellect and interests, in tastes and mutual passion. To be apart from you any longer would be illogical...a true waste of potential, _our_ potential."

She touched her fingers to his in a light _ozh'esta_, sending a pleasurable flush coursing through him. "Of course, the decision is not mine alone to make," she said. "Do you still wish me gone?"

Soval could hardly believe what was transpiring. Perhaps he was approaching a turning point as well, one he had not anticipated. "I never..._wished_ you gone," he confessed.

T'Shara's dark eyes warmed in the dawning light. "That pleases me." She turned to go. "I have taken an apartment in the compound. I shall leave you to your meditation, and we will talk later."

"You have already secured quarters?" Soval blurted in surprise.

Looking back at him over her shoulder, T'Shara nodded, her expression serenely innocent.

"Before speaking with me?" Soval went on, with a touch of irritation. "What if I had been of the same mind as before?"

"Your question is irrelevant, since you are of a different mind," she said.

"I have not made up my mind!" he insisted.

"Precisely the reason I have made arrangements to stay," T'Shara responded smoothly. "Such a decision will take time."

"Quite right," he declared, attempting to maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

"And in the interim, I have no wish to leave you again," she added softly.

All thought of control suddenly seemed immaterial to him. "I find your plan acceptable."

"Then we are agreed." With a nod of farewell, T'Shara crossed the sandy beach to the wooden stairway that led up to the compound. As she climbed the steps, Soval saw that her feet were also bare. He doubted that any other Vulcan in the system would choose to sink barefoot into the damp sand of a Terran beach, other than himself.

What a provocative, captivating woman.

With an effort, he turned away, kneeling before his meditation candle once more. He lit the taper, focused on the flame...and with a shake of his head, he blew the candle out. It would be impossible to clear his mind now.

* * *

Chapter Two: _Danica_

_Erickson Research Center  
Palmdale, North American Region  
Earth_

Dad had slept soundly for a change, after his last treatment. Usually the pain from his twisted spine kept him from experiencing anything resembling restful sleep, but the bliss of knowing he had gotten everything he wanted—that was bound to make any pain bearable. Danica, on the other hand, hadn't slept a wink. She'd finally given up and gone outside to watch the sky slowly lighten, revealing the silhouettes of Joshua trees scattered like a ragged army across the flat Palmdale desert. A century ago, the Joshua trees had all but disappeared, plowed under by the press of civilization. But the war's destruction had made great inroads into the population in the American Southwest, and nature had stepped in with her customary efficiency to fill the void.

It was almost six: time for Dad's next injection. Danica went back inside the quiet, shadowy ranch house, passing walls lined with pictures, shelves crowded with knickknacks, mementos, and more pictures. There were homages to Quinn at every turn. Dad took comfort in the jumble of remembrances to the son he refused to let go. Danica had long ago learned to move through the house without looking at the makeshift shrines. Her eyes would automatically pick out the pictures of Jon as she passed; she would rather see reminders of the living, not the dead. But she couldn't help but see the images of Quinn anyway, hovering at the edge of her peripheral vision, like a ghost haunting her.

She had been praying that _Enterprise_ would be too busy, too vital, too famous to be pulled away from its scheduled assignment, whatever it was, to ferry one crippled old scientist and his caregiver daughter to the end of nowhere for a transporter experiment. Then this crazy scheme of her father's would have no way to be set into motion, and he would finally be forced to face the reality that Quinn was lost.

Yesterday morning, though, Admiral Gardner himself had called with the news that _Enterprise_ would be taking them to the Barrens. For Dad, the news couldn't have been better. For Danica, it couldn't have been worse.

"It's not right!" she had told her father. "We're pulling one of only two NX-class starships out of service for months, under false pretenses—"

"There's no other way I can get the resources I need," Emory had placidly replied. "You know that, Dani. Even if I had proof that Quinn is alive—"

"You don't have proof because there's a greater probability that he's gone, Dad."

"No!" her father had declared firmly, as he wheeled his chair away from the comm terminal. "I've run the scenario dozens of times in simulation. He's caught in flux—suspended." His voice had faltered, as his hands tightened on the sides of his wheelchair. "I can't even imagine it...being frozen in subspace, with no way of knowing the passage of time, no sense of reality. I can't leave him there, Dani, in that purgatory of nothingness, not when I'm the one responsible for putting him there." Then his voice had hardened with resolve. "I will find him and bring him back. I'll do anything to get him back."

"Including putting eighty-five people at risk?" Danica had asked soberly. "Putting Jon at risk?"

Emory's attitude had shifted like quicksilver, to cocky confidence. His moods changed more quickly with each passing week. "I've had months to plan this, to put the proper safeguards in place," he declared. "You're worrying needlessly, Dani. There's no use going over this again. I am going to do this. I have to. This is what has kept me alive all these years."

And off he'd gone, to run more simulations.

_This is what has kept me in suspended animation all these years, just like my brother_, Danica thought as she headed down the hallway toward Emory's bedroom. _Dad has had no thought of me or anyone else. He's lied to Starfleet, to his investors... All of us have been frozen in time, waiting to break the spell._

She peeked in on her dad. Surprise—he was already awake, sitting at the edge of his bed, carefully lowering himself into his wheelchair.

"Do I need to adjust the dose?" she asked.

Emory smiled. "No. I'm just excited, I guess."

She couldn't play along, not even to make him happy. "You shouldn't be, considering how many people we've snowballed with this phantom 'sub-quantum transporter' of yours." She glanced over at him as she readied his injection. "And I don't know how you expect me to look Jon in the eye and lie to him. I've _never_ lied to him."

Emory waved a hand dismissively at her as he settled himself in his chair. "If you don't think you can handle this, Dani, then I won't put you through it. Stay home. I'll hire a nurse."

Danica looked away, feeling the hot, sharp edge of his words as they cut through her. Her dad was just like he had always been. He loved her when she was useful, but if he ever had to choose between her and Quinn, it was as if she didn't even exist.

With impersonal efficiency, she pulled up his pajama top, felt for the injection point between his metal-reinforced vertebrae, and drove the needle home, more roughly than usual. "I didn't realize I was so expendable."

He sucked in a hiss of breath as she yanked the shot out. "I don't have time for your sulking, Dani. I'm going to get Quinn." He looked over his shoulder at her as he pulled his top back into place. "You can help me, or you can stay out of my way. There aren't any other choices."

Biting back an acid retort, Danica stalked out of his room. It took all her self-control not to slam the door behind her.

She kept going, out of the house, away from the compound. She knew exactly how far she needed to go to be able to cry and scream and bellow out her pent-up frustration and hurt and anger, without her father being able to hear her. Even during these moments when she hated him, she loved him too much to hurt him the way he was hurting her.

Dammit, she _should_ let him go off without her. Let him see just how long he'd last with some rent-a-nurse who wouldn't put up for one day with his ego, or his quirks, or his demands. Let him tell Danica how expendable she was _then_.

Only problem was, he wouldn't come home all aglow with renewed appreciation for her. He'd disown her and never speak to her again.

Even that was tempting, to the part of her that had given the prime of her life to him.

When her throat was raw and she was too tired to yell any more, Danica started back. She would go with her father on _Enterprise_ to the Barrens. She would find a way to lie to Jon, though she would hate herself for it. And when Emory's elaborate scheme failed and they were exposed as frauds, she would stand by her father as Jon turned his back on them for betraying him...as they were banned from all Starfleet research facilities in perpetuity...as they lost everything.

The worst would be Jon. Danica didn't know how she would survive losing another brother, but she would get through it somehow.

Her father wouldn't care about any of it, of course. He wouldn't be aware of anything except his failure to retrieve Quinn. But he would no longer have the resources to put together another plan to get his son back. It would finally be over.

Then maybe, just maybe, he would remember that he had another child who needed him.

Danica didn't have the courage to hope that Quinn was dead. But she hoped with all her heart that he was at peace.

-tbc-


	2. Part II

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

A/N: Acknowledgments to the late Carl Sagan for a quote from his magnificent series _Cosmos_.

* * *

**Part II**

Chapter Three: _Nick_

_Mess Hall  
NX-01 Enterprise  
Orbiting Earth_

Nick stared out the viewport at Earth, wondering what the fallout would be from his meeting with John Frederick Paxton...wondering whom to believe.

The world below seemed colorless to him. Gray, dull, lifeless.

He blinked as a warm plate of pastry and a steaming mug of coffee were placed on the table before him. Janette Fuller, one of the quartermasters, was smiling down at him. "Almond croissant," she said. "Fresh from the oven. One of the few perks of being up at this ungodly hour."

"Thanks." Nick sipped at the hot coffee.

Janette sat beside him, setting down her own mug. "Mind?"

He shook his head. They both gazed in silence at the slowly turning world below.

Nick turned to study Janette. She always seemed to be smiling when he saw her, as she was now. But she had lost a sibling on _Enterprise_ too, during the war. "Do you think about Christophe?" he asked.

"Every day," she answered. "Do you think about Angelica?"

Nick nodded. "How do you..." He hesitated.

"How do I put one foot in front of the other?" Janette's face was gentle with understanding. "Get out of bed every morning?"

Nick picked at his croissant. "Yeah."

She took a sip of her coffee as she sat back in her chair. "Chris and I had a talk before the Xindi mission. First he tried to tell me I wasn't going. I said he was full of shit, and Earth was my homeworld too. After we got that straightened out, we made a deal with each other: If something happened to one of us, whoever was left would try to live a life that would make the other proud." She smiled faintly at Nick. "That's what gets me out of bed every morning. I want to make my brother proud of me. Does that help?"

_...Try to live a life that would make the other proud._ Slowly, Nick nodded.

Janette raised an eyebrow. "So? You doing that? Making Angie proud?"

Nick thought back to last night on the Moon...speaking from his heart, and getting yelled at by Paxton...weighing the great man's theories about T'Pol against his own gut instincts...feeling in fear for his life. "Sometimes I don't know."

"When you don't know, just listen." Janette touched a hand to Nick's gut. "Here." Then his forehead. "Here. And here." His heart. "Works for me every time."

Nick had done that last night. He smiled at her. "Thanks, Janette."

"Any time." She gave his shoulder a squeeze and went on her way.

Nick looked out the viewport again. The oceans of Earth seemed a little bluer now, the land masses browner, more vivid. He liked what Janette suggested...doing something every day that would make Angie proud. Perhaps it would put some color back into the dull gray of his life, too.

* * *

Chapter Four: _Archer_

_Captain's Quarters  
NX-01 Enterprise  
Orbiting Earth_

It was nearly 0600 hours when Archer said his goodnights—or rather, his good mornings—to Trip and T'Pol and entered his quarters. He knew he should feel exhausted; he'd been going for twenty-six hours straight now, on an emotional roller-coaster ride practically every step of the way. Instead, he felt invigorated, renewed...and for the first time in months, more reconciled with the ghosts that had been haunting him.

-- -- --

_Six Hours Earlier_

Archer took Trip and T'Pol to a café he used to frequent, situated on a hilltop with an enviable view overlooking San Francisco. Though he had put on his overcoat to cover his dress uniform, Archer's face was still unmistakable, and Trip and T'Pol in their matching midnight blue wedding attire were an arresting sight; the trio attracted a lot of attention.

Before the evening could degenerate into another celebrity sighting, the maître d' swiftly came to their rescue, employing a phalanx of waiters to keep the looky-loos and autograph seekers at bay as he seated the three at his best table. He presented his distinguished guests with drinks—a rich Glenfiddich 40-year-old Scotch whisky for the gentlemen, imported Vulcan tea for the lady—and quietly made himself scarce.

The three friends began their conversation casually, talking about Lorian and Karyn's wedding, the reception, and the bonding ceremony. Gradually, Trip steered the discussion toward the ship, the Expanse, the war...and the cost of war. For the first time, Archer found himself opening up and talking freely, about everything that had been eating away at his conscience and keeping his wounded sense of moral correctness from healing.

Bit by bit, the ghosts began to reveal themselves.

He recalled his surprise and revulsion at how easily his frustration had led to torture when he tossed that Osaarian pirate in the airlock and nearly asphyxiated him. Archer remembered looking in his mirror that night, wondering who the man was staring back at him. _If the Osaarian hadn't broken, would you have let him die?_ he had asked his reflection.

The answer came at once: _Yes._ That realization had sent him retching into the sink.

His determination to hold onto his humanity became more tenuous as _Enterprise_ moved closer to the superweapon, and the stakes rose. With each hard choice, each costly decision, each heartbreaking consequence, each wrong that couldn't be righted, he hated himself a little more, and died a bit more inside.

_I must complete this mission._ It became his mantra, his justification, his own personal torture.

He became adept at compartmentalizing, but the dreams got worse each night. When he looked in his mirror, he began to see faces looking back at him. The Osaarian pirate, his eyes wide and terrified, framed in the window of the airlock. The Vulcans on the _Seleya_, looking like living-dead zombies, their brilliant minds destroyed. The Xindi of the monitoring facility on Azati Prime's moon, killed to ensure their silence...faceless and indistinct, but still somehow accusing. The captain of the Illyrian ship, staring in horrified disbelief as Archer beamed away with the stolen warp coil, condemning the man and his crew to a three-year journey home. Over two dozen lost crewmen and MACOs—Hawkins, Forbes, Major Hayes, Fuller, Kumada, Taylor, Masaro... Too many good people dead.

And Sim, his guileless blue eyes full of hurt, the same way he looked back in Trip's quarters when he realized Archer couldn't afford to care about him the way he cared about Trip...Sim haunted Archer most of all.

The faces plagued Archer, waking and sleeping, for months. It hadn't mattered to him that the bloody, broken trail of battle had led to a safe, Sphere-Builder-free universe. His conscience wasn't magically salved by the cheering crowds at Starfleet that gave _Enterprise's_ crew a heroes' welcome. The dead were still dead. The Illyrian ship was still crippled and far from home. Lines had still been crossed. Archer couldn't act as if none of it had happened. He had changed. He _was_ changed.

"There is no refuge from change, Captain," T'Pol told him. "It is an inevitability of the cosmos."

"It's how you react that matters," Trip said. "In crisis, a man's true nature is revealed—not just who he thinks he is, or who others think he is, but who he really is."

Archer stared pensively into his whisky glass. "So who am I?"

"You are Henry Archer's son," T'Pol replied. "A man of honor and integrity."

Archer looked doubtfully at her. "I wasn't feeling very honorable a few months ago."

Trip leaned forward, his blue eyes intent on his friend. "A captain with compassion and a conscience doesn't have an easy time of it. You're forced to make impossible decisions at times, like any commander. But then _you_ spend a good chunk of forever mulling over what you should've done, could've done, and didn't do. The fallout from the job is a little rougher for you." He raised an eyebrow, pointedly. "Especially if you don't have anybody to talk to."

Archer squinted at him. "As I recall, you had your own problems last year."

"Okay, so we were _both_ idiots who weren't talking to anybody." Trip nodded to T'Pol. "At least I wised up."

"With considerable reluctance," T'Pol remarked.

"That's right." Trip began chuckling. "I had my heart set on staying stupid, but..."

Archer was laughing softly too now. T'Pol watched them both, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Trip refilled the whisky glasses as T'Pol poured herself more tea. They sat in comfortable silence for a time, looking out at the night-lit city.

Archer could feel the deepest wound he carried from the war still flaring and festering inside him. "How often do you think of Sim?" he asked at last.

Neither Trip nor T'Pol seemed surprised by the question. "A lot," Trip said.

"As do I," echoed T'Pol.

"I wish I'd spent more time with him," Archer murmured. "Part of me—the part who wasn't the captain, who was just Jon—wanted to spend every second with him. Time was so short..." He looked at Trip, and he could see young Sim's eager, curious face, and that same lopsided smile. "It was like a gift, seeing you when you were young...seeing the man I knew, in that boy's eyes."

Trip smiled faintly, and Archer looked away. "It would have been so easy for the friendship to happen all over again," he said. "But I couldn't let it...I _couldn't_. I had to pull out that captain I'd been refining since we reached the Expanse—the selfish, single-minded bastard." Regret and self-loathing rose in his throat like bile, tasting sharp and bitter in his mouth. "To him, Sim was just a walking corpse with a head full of valuable neural tissue waiting to be harvested. I wanted to figure out how to be Jon too, but I couldn't do it..."

"Cap'n." Trip laid a hand lightly on Archer's arm. "You're mulling again."

Archer shook his head, feeling both disbelief and envy as he searched Trip's calm face. "How can you joke about this?"

"Because I've been where you are now," Trip replied. "I woke up one day and found out that the only reason I was alive was because a man I never even met was dead. I had to figure out how to be at peace with that before I could do anything else."

Archer remembered how Trip had been almost paralyzed by guilt, after he'd found out about Sim. He had finally gone to Archer, who was having his own problems dealing with Sim's sacrifice... "You asked me about him," he recalled.

Trip nodded. "When you told me Sim did it to help save Earth, it made sense. When you said he did it because of Lizzie, I understood him a lot better. But in the end, it really came down to me accepting that Sim considered my life worth dying for."

Archer could still see Sim's face...so like Trip's, and yet with a uniqueness all its own. The image was seared into his memory. "He believed it was his destiny to save you," he said quietly.

"Yeah, Phlox told me." Trip looked thoughtful. "It's pretty overwhelming, being somebody's destiny. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. But the best way to honor Sim, I think, is to respect what he did, rather than regret it or feel guilty about it." He clinked Archer's whisky glass with his own. "That goes for you too, Pappy."

Archer tried to scowl at him, but then Trip flashed a tiny, mischievous smile, and Archer found himself smiling too. He was again reminded of young Sim, sporting that same impish expression as he spoke of a prank he pulled on his little sister Lizzie...and this time, the memory didn't hurt as much.

"Surak tells us that a life for which no one grieves is a life wasted," T'Pol said. "Sim's life was not wasted."

"Hell no," Trip agreed fervently. "He saved me, and he helped save the universe, same as the rest of us." He smiled slyly at Archer. "He even told T'Pol I was in love with her, when I didn't even know myself."

"What...?" A slow smile spread on Archer's face as he looked from Trip to T'Pol. "You never told me that."

T'Pol took a sip of her tea. "Sim's statement was less blatantly declarative." Her expression was beautifully enigmatic, but Archer saw something there that seemed to light her from within. Whatever Sim told her, it must have been breathtaking.

Trip snickered. "He got his point across."

Archer eyed Trip over the rim of his whisky glass. "So how long were you clueless?"

Trip's jaw dropped. "Waitaminute, I wasn't _that_ clueless about bein' clueless."

"But she knew," Archer said, straight-faced. "And you didn't know. And she knew you didn't know."

Trip groaned. "How long are you planning on teasin' me about this?"

Archer smiled, Cheshire-cat-like. "It depends. How long are you planning on calling me 'Pappy'?"

-- -- --

As Archer brought the shuttlepod in on final approach to _Enterprise_, Trip asked, "So when are you gonna see her again?"

Archer had most of his attention on the pod bay doors. "Trip, she's on her honeymoon."

"I don't mean Karyn," Trip said. "I mean that bartender from Callahan's."

Startled, Archer twisted around to stare at his friend. "How do you know about her? _I_ hardly even know about her!"

Trip sat back with a chuckle. "Relax. I didn't notice a thing. It was my better half."

Archer spared T'Pol a single mortified glance before turning back to the controls. "This is damn embarrassing, being outed by a Vulcan."

"It is highly unlikely that anyone but a Vulcan would take note of the small nuances such as pupil dilation, skin tone change, and quickening respiration that took place when you and she said your farewells last night," T'Pol said.

Archer smiled sheepishly. "Did we do all that?"

Trip leaned in. "As a matter of fact," he said in a low voice, "you're doin' that skin tone change thing right now."

"Would you two knock it off?" But Archer had to admit to being pleased that they knew.

"We're shipping out in a few days," Trip reminded him. "I wouldn't waste any time if I were you."

"On the contrary, Captain, I commend your discretion," T'Pol countered. "It is a pragmatic tactic for such a prominent figure."

Archer shrugged self-consciously. "I just don't want to mess it up."

Trip smiled. "So she _is_ special."

Archer nodded, feeling himself beaming like a schoolboy. "Yes. She's special."

"So when are you gonna see her again?..."

-- -- --

Alone in his quarters, Archer washed his hands and face, then finally ventured a look in his mirror. For the first time since he could remember, no ghosts looked back at him. He gripped the edge of the sink, swallowing hard, feeling more emotional than he had expected.

The man in the mirror's reflection had changed. He had long ago ceased looking like the eager, youthful explorer of four years ago. In fact, he appeared to have aged far more than a year since the war's beginning. His eyes would always reflect the price he had paid for the lines crossed and the lives lost. He would never forget.

_In the cosmos, there is no refuge from change._

_It's how you react that matters._

_You are Henry Archer's son._

He would follow _Columbia's_ missions to find the Illyrians and repatriate the Skagarans. If he couldn't see to the matters personally, at least he would make certain that they were resolved, and reparations were made.

He still wanted to explore; that love hadn't died. He would embrace humanity's new independence from the defunct VHC, and help further Starfleet's mandate of establishing relations with other species.

_Be willing to pursue the possibilities._

Thanks to the advice of his endlessly optimistic great-granddaughter, he would see what became of the intriguing new connection he'd made with Kyle. What was it that he'd always said about Karyn and Lorian...? Stranger fairy tales had happy endings.

The man in the mirror looked down at his beagle, whose expectant face and wagging tail were insistently announcing the end of introspection, and the arrival of breakfast. He scooped Porthos up in his arms, receiving an affectionately slurpy kiss on the chin.

Happily, some things never changed.

-tbc-


	3. Part III

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

_**Please note rating change for this installment.**_

Rating: Chapter Six is rated R for sexual situations.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

* * *

**Part III**

Chapter Five: _Bethany_

Bethany drew her knitted shawl more closely around her shoulders to ward off the chill as she headed up the dusty, deserted boardwalk of North Star's Main Street toward the schoolhouse. Ahead to the east, the sky was beginning to lighten, turning from deep blue to rose, signaling the approaching sunrise.

Bethany searched the still-dark sky above. _For what? A starship?_ Would she even see it from here? When she was aboard Archer's ship _Enterprise_, looking down at her world, it had seemed impossibly far away. She found herself looking for a telltale glint anyway...a star that moved across the sky...

"Morning, Miss Bethany." Sheriff MacReady emerged from his office as she passed, as he did each morning, and tipped his hat in gentlemanly salutation. "Walk you to the schoolhouse?"

"Thank you kindly, Sheriff," Bethany smiled in reply, and they continued on together. It was more a comfortable ritual than a necessity nowadays; trouble rarely visited Bethany's schoolhouse anymore. The parents who had objected to Skagarans being taught alongside humans had long since moved away, or pulled their children out of school. Uprisers had come in a steady stream at first, loudly decrying the town council's new Tolerance Laws, aiming to disrupt Bethany's class and shake her confidence with vandalism, threats, and calls for a new Uprising in the name of Cooper Smith. But Sheriff MacReady had unflinchingly arrested each Upriser as soon as they broke one of the new laws. His jail had been full to bursting for weeks.

Finally the hatemongers had seen the truth of things, and the excitement had died down. Word of North Star's Tolerance Laws, as well as Sheriff MacReady's reputation for stoutly upholding them, spread far and wide, and Skagaran families began immigrating to nearby Chanceville—formerly known as Skagtown—from half a dozen neighboring towns. Bethany's class complement steadily grew, until the schoolroom was filled with children, both human and Skagaran, untainted by prejudice and eager to learn. When Bethany discovered that many of the Skagaran children went home each day and taught their parents what they had learned, she felt even more fulfilled.

She and the sheriff walked in companionable silence to the schoolhouse. Even after escorting her every day for the last six months, MacReady remained pretty tongue-tied around her—around all womenfolk, really, but especially Bethany. Perhaps it was because she was the teacher. Some men simply didn't know how to act around an educated woman.

The sheriff hung back in the doorway as Bethany erased the blackboard. When she first began publicly teaching the Skagarans, MacReady would linger in the doorway during many a lesson, ostensibly to protect the children. Bethany suspected that he was secretly curious to learn what she was teaching—particularly the new lessons she based on the information she'd brought back from Archer's ship, about the Time Away: Earth's history of the last three centuries. Lately, though, his interest had faded, as had his hope that the Earth ship would return.

Bethany pulled out the padd that Archer had given her, tapping the touchscreen to call up the information she would need for the day's lesson. Even though she'd quickly gotten comfortable using the little contraption, she still marveled at it—virtually an entire library accessible by the touch of her finger. She had no illusions that acclimating to Earth, the way Earth was now, would be so simple...but it was a beginning.

MacReady watched her write STARFLEET and ENTERPRISE on the blackboard. "Why do you keep teaching about them?" he asked. "It's been over half a year, and we haven't heard a thing from them."

Bethany smiled to herself. They had the same conversation every month or so. She looked over her shoulder at him. "I saw Archer with his crew, Sheriff. His people respected him. I'd say he's a man of his word. He told me they'd be back, and I believe him."

MacReady tapped his boot heel on the wooden floor, and a fine layer of dust floated away from the well-worn leather. "Then why haven't they come back?"

Bethany kept writing on the blackboard: ZEFRAM COCHRANE, WARP DRIVE. "They were at war, remember? It took almost three years for the humans to overthrow the Skagarans."

MacReady frowned. "'Humans,' 'Skagarans.' I don't rightly know why you put it that way...why you don't say 'us' instead of 'humans'."

Bethany mentally berated herself for being so transparent. The sheriff wasn't like most of the shoot-'em-up yahoos in town. If she wasn't more careful, he'd figure out that she was more than just a Skagaran sympathizer—he'd realize that she had Skagaran blood running through her veins, and she was merely passing for human. She liked to think that it wouldn't make much difference to MacReady if he were to find out, but a lifetime of ingrained prejudice wasn't easy for anyone to overcome.

To the sheriff, she shrugged lightly. "That's just teacher-talk. Presenting the two sides objectively keeps the children from developing prejudices. We've had enough of that, don't you think?"

MacReady nodded with conviction. "Yes, ma'am."

As Bethany turned away from the board, dusting the chalk off her hands, she saw doubt on the sheriff's face. She put her hands on her hips. "You there in the back, near the door. Do you have something to contribute to the lesson today?"

MacReady folded his arms and studied her with a hint of what looked like concern. "You're an optimist, Bethany. I can't fault you for that. But I think you've set yourself up for disappointment."

"Oh?" She crossed the schoolroom to stand before him. "Eight months ago, you were calling Skagarans 'Skags.' You still blamed them for something their distant ancestors did over two hundred years before you were born. And you thought Earth was a myth. But I never stopped hoping that your perspective would change. You didn't disappoint me, Sheriff."

MacReady gave her a wry grimace. "Getting shot by my own deputy aided my change of mind. Also seeing that the people who rushed to my aid there in the street were an alien and humans with guns that fired beams of light, just like the Skagarans used when they kidnapped our people." He shrugged. "Things like that tend to persuade you mighty quick to rethink your point of view."

"But you still don't think Archer will come back?"

MacReady adjusted his hat, saying nothing, but his eyes were filled with skepticism. Bethany met his dark gaze with the calm of unshakable belief. "Why are you such a pessimist, Sheriff?"

He looked away, examining the toes of his boots for a long moment. Finally he murmured, "Maybe I just haven't spent enough time with optimists."

_He's the bravest man I know...and yet he's afraid to hope._ Gently, Bethany said, "We can fix that."

MacReady looked up at her, and she smiled at him. Hesitantly, he smiled back.

* * *

Chapter Six: _T'Pol_

_First Officer's Quarters  
NX-01 Enterprise  
Orbiting Earth_

Trip checked the chronometer as he walked T'Pol into her quarters. It was nearly 0600. "I can't believe we've been up all night," he said. "I don't feel it at all."

"Perhaps my Vulcan physiology is influencing you," T'Pol theorized. "We can go without sleep for several days if the need arises." She observed her husband's contented, smiling face. "Although you appear distinctly un-Vulcan at present."

"Do I?" Trip slipped his arms around her waist.

She nodded, sliding her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "In fact, you look quite pleased with yourself."

"I am pleased," he confirmed. "My mom adores you. My dad, well, he's undergone a continental shift...he's still pretty shell-shocked, but I see potential there. Our son is married to a wonderful girl. The Cap'n has laid a lot of ghosts to rest. So I'd say it's been a good day all around." He frowned. "Except for..."

"For what?" T'Pol asked with concern.

He adopted a distinctly hangdog expression. "Except for the unmerciful teasing my wife was giving me in front of the whole family last night."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is there such a thing as 'merciful' teasing?"

He looked pained. "Now there you go again."

She kept her face neutral, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. "I find teasing to be much more satisfying when done before witnesses."

Her husband cocked his head to one side, eyeing her speculatively. "Not necessarily."

She felt the undercurrent of their bond subtly intensify, warm and inviting. "Indeed? Perhaps you would care to explain further."

He leaned closer, brushing his cheek past hers, until his mouth was near her ear. His voice was soft with promise as he said, "There's a lot to be said for teasing in private."

A moment later, T'Pol felt his tongue tracing the outline of her ear, feather-light, from the lobe upward. It was far from an erogenous zone, to be sure, but the sensation was nevertheless most pleasurable. She held his shoulders more firmly, letting her eyes slip shut as a tingle passed through her body from head to toe. Trip's tongue traveled up the rim of her ear, toward the sensitive tip...

...Then he pulled away. With a small sound of protest, T'Pol opened her eyes. Trip was face to face with her once more. "In a hurry, are we?" he asked lazily. "There's four whole hours till the Board of Inquiry."

She felt the bond flare between them again, even as she felt him beginning to harden against her thigh. She met his gaze challengingly. "Tease me further then, husband."

Smiling faintly, Trip slowly ran his tongue over his lips. As T'Pol watched, she could already taste him. He leaned forward again, touching his moistened lips lightly to the corner of her mouth. Instinctively, she turned to kiss him fully, but he was faster, eluding her lips, dropping down to her jawline. He began planting a row of tiny kisses there, traveling down the side of her neck. T'Pol let her head fall back as his whisper-light touch left a trail of delicious heat along her skin. He stopped where her pulse throbbed at her throat, nuzzling her there, flicking his tongue over the spot, just barely enough to make contact. She sighed with pleasure, and heard him hum softly against her skin in reply.

Keeping his arms around her, Trip walked her backward to her desk chair, gently sitting her down. Kneeling before her, he let his hands drift languidly down the long skirt of her dark blue satin dress, until he reached her feet. T'Pol watched him and waited, her desire simmering.

Trip bent down and kissed the inside of her ankle, tickling the skin with his tongue. T'Pol drew in a breath of surprise and unexpected arousal. He glanced up at her, a smile briefly crossing his face, before he returned his attention to her ankle. As he slowly pushed the hem of her dress upward, he kissed and licked his way up her legs, alternating from one to the other, keeping to her sensitive inner skin. His touch was delicate, offering barely a hint of the overwhelming pleasures he had given her in the past, but the very suggestiveness of the action—and the anticipation it created—was remarkably evocative. By the time his mouth had reached midway up her inner thighs, T'Pol's breathing had markedly quickened, and her hips were moving rhythmically in her chair, quite of their own volition.

Trip pushed her skirt up further, above her thighs, and sighed appreciatively at what he revealed. T'Pol, unwilling to mar the lines of the bias-cut sheath, had chosen to wear no undergarments. As Trip settled the material of the skirt around her waist, she spread her legs wider in anticipation of his approaching mouth and tongue...

...But, maddeningly, he pulled away again. "Do you mean to tease me, or torture me?" T'Pol gasped.

"Patience, _t'hai'la_." Keeping his eyes on hers, Trip stood up, kicking off his shoes, and quickly divested himself of his clothes. As he removed his briefs, T'Pol trembled at the sight of him, feeling the bond crackle between them. She could sense her husband's desire as strongly as her own. He was hungry enough to take her right now...but again, he surprised her. Scooting her forward to the edge of the chair, he stretched her legs out and knelt again, straddling them. Then, lightly taking hold of her naked hips, he lowered his head to the juncture between her legs.

T'Pol felt his warm breath moving over her hyper-sensitized skin. The effect was tantalizing, erotic, agreeably endless. She lay back in the chair, indulging in the physical sensations rippling through her body, and the far deeper mental and emotional resonance echoing between her and her bondmate.

When she felt the wet touch of his tongue on her skin, she jerked forward with a gasp. Direct contact was enormously arousing after Trip's preamble of gentle teasing. She tried to spread her legs to give him more access, but he kept them firmly trapped between his knees. As she felt his tongue delving deeper, he ran his fingers lightly over her behind, eliciting more shudders of pleasure from her .

T'Pol could not help the intermittent moans that were escaping her now. Her hips were undulating urgently, as if trying to free themselves from their confinement, despite the skillful ministrations of Trip's tongue and fingers. She yearned for more of his touch—she wanted him to be making love to her. She knew she could overpower him with her superior strength—wrench open her legs and force his tongue lower, or pull him on top of her and guide him inside her before he had an opportunity to demur. _But I asked him to tease me_, she reminded herself. _I shall be patient. No doubt the reward for my perseverance will be memorable._

She knew Trip sensed her frustration; she could feel a shift in the bond. His fingers left her hips and moved upward, along her still clothed midriff, until he reached the underswell of her breasts. But even now, he chose to titillate rather than satisfy, tracing the curve underneath. He squeezed gently, moving the satin fabric over her already erect nipples, which hardened further, straining against the material.

T'Pol was nearing a state of exquisite distress. "You have teased me sufficiently," she said, her voice quavering slightly.

Trip paused, raising his head to meet her gaze. "I dunno," he murmured doubtfully, though his eyes were playful. "I wouldn't want to leave the job half-done."

She squirmed; his fingers had not stopped moving. "I assure you that you have performed with your customary efficiency."

He pursed his lips, weighing her statement, then shook his head. "I'd better make sure." And he lowered his head again, resuming his previous activity.

There were certainly _some_ measures T'Pol could take. She reached back and unzipped her dress, pulling it off her shoulders, freeing her breasts. Trip's fingers never faltered as he made the adjustment from fabric to bare skin, but through the bond she heard him laughing delightedly at her boldness. T'Pol settled back again, focusing on the decidedly preferable feel of her husband's fingernails lightly trailing across the skin of her breasts, as his tongue continued to tantalize her. She was fairly certain she had the patience to suffer through this stage of Trip's teasing.

With alluring deliberation, Trip began rubbing himself against her legs. T'Pol moaned aloud as she felt a powerful wave of desire, _his_ desire, wash over her. Her body was trembling with need now, desperate for more stimulation. She reached up to fondle her breasts—but Trip's hands intercepted her, gently but firmly taking her by the wrists and pushing her hands down. She writhed, whimpering helplessly, her head lolling from side to side as she nearly wrenched herself from his grasp. The bond burned white-hot between them.

Suddenly the lightly teasing touch of Trip's tongue became focused and all-encompassing, sending T'Pol's desire spinning dizzily upward. Then his hands were on her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, pinching them sharply, creating a shockwave of pleasure that sent her soaring into orgasm.

She grabbed his arms as she lost control, crying out, bucking in the chair as waves of ecstasy shuddered through her. He kept caressing her insistently with his tongue and fingers, each touch setting off another paroxysm of pleasure inside her, until at last she collapsed back in the chair, gasping for breath, gloriously sated.

When her breathing had sufficiently calmed, she raised her head and regarded her husband. He was sitting back on his knees, smiling at her. Though her own need had been quenched, T'Pol could feel his, still growing merely at the sight of her. She felt humbled by the power she had over him, and by the love he had for her. Their bond, already fiery with desire, resonated anew with their mutual devotion.

She rose, letting her dress drop to the floor, and knelt over her beloved's lap. They locked eyes as he entered her, effortless and deep, filling her body and mind and senses. As they held each other close, Trip began to move, his rhythm achingly slow at first, then increasing in speed and urgency until he was panting in her embrace, gripping her waist as he made love to her. T'Pol felt his pleasure rising, his body beginning to tremble as he neared completion—and then he climaxed with a deep groan of release.

She held him to her, running her fingers through his hair as a final shudder shook his body. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips. He hummed into her mouth with satisfaction, languorously intertwining his tongue with hers, as the bond glowed between them like embers of a spent fire.

When they parted, T'Pol regarded her husband with an expression of serene Vulcan calm. "Thank you for your explanation regarding private teasing. It was most informative. And comprehensive."

Trip smiled. "We aim to please." He glanced idly around the room. "So...got any other ideas on how to kill time before the Board of Inquiry?"

T'Pol arched a perfect eyebrow. "No doubt there must be some activity that bears further explanation...and demonstration." She allowed the corners of her lips to turn upward in the barest hint of a smile. "For example, your past reference to 'sixty-nine'..."

-tbc-


	4. Part IV

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

Rating for these chapters: PG

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

* * *

**Part IV**

Chapter Seven: _The Observer_

The Observer stood at one of the aft systems consoles on the bridge of the dimly-lit Bird-of-Prey _qeyllS_, watching through the eyes of his Klingon host as the ship's captain faced the forward viewscreen. Displayed there was the cramped interior of a Klingon shuttlecraft, and the landing party it was bringing back from the planet surface. Each man was struggling to conceal the feverish sweating, dizziness, and crushing fatigue that marked the advanced stages of the silicon virus.

The captain addressed the haggard commander of the shuttle crew. "I've heard from the doctor. He has determined that a cure won't be found in time."

The shuttle commander stiffened as the ramifications of the captain's statement sank in. "Understood."

The Observer hardly paid attention. This species' response had been foolishly simple to determine, once he had seen that their ship was bristling with weaponry. Creatures with such a disturbing predilection for violence, and a culture that emphasized honor over life, would not be expected to have the sufficiently sophisticated medical technology on hand to develop a cure in time to matter—if they developed it at all.

"There is too great a risk of spreading the infection if you and the landing party return to the ship," the captain continued, his voice harsh with finality.

The Observer noted that the captain's declaration appeared to rouse the shuttle crew somewhat. They all drew themselves up with a distinct arrogance that belied their obviously failing health—almost as if they desired to look their defiant best as they approached death. The Observer mentally filed the tiny reaction away; it would make a curious footnote in his report.

The shuttle commander glanced at his three ailing men before turning back to his captain. "Sir, I cannot allow my men to die without honor, the shamed prey of a mere _illness_." He spat out the last word with disgust.

The captain's severe attitude did not waver. "Do not commit _Hegh'bat_, Commander. I give you and your crew the honor of killing the enemy that kills you." He turned to his tactical officer. "Target the shuttlecraft. Forward disruptor cannons."

The officer nodded and went to work at his console. The captain addressed the shuttle crew with savage pride. "You go to _Sto-vo-kor_ this day!"

The commander saluted in return. "Today is a good day to die!" he declared, as forcefully as his weakened state would allow.

The Observer dispassionately noted the exchange for his report. So the sick were abandoned in order for the healthy to survive. It was the simplistic code of a warrior species—little different from the evolutionary mechanism that selected for the organisms best adapted to their environment. The only "intelligence" at work here was the rudimentary level needed to design and fashion ever more efficient killing machines.

The image on the viewscreen winked off, replaced by a starfield with a metallic dot in the distance: the doomed shuttlecraft, no longer approaching sanctuary, but rather an appropriately violent end.

The Observer had seen the same scenario play out...how many times now? He'd lost count. The number would be somewhere in his reports. The result was always the same with corporeals. As the magnitude of the crisis became apparent, and decisions were made under increasing pressure, the strongest instinct that prevailed was invariably the instinct for survival. It was understandable, given these beings' pitifully short lifespans. However, it marked them as primitives, unable to look beyond themselves, and unworthy of further study—much less First Contact.

The Observer wondered at times what he was still doing here, really. He'd observed more than enough of these tiresomely predictable physical species during the past eight hundred years to make reasonable extrapolative conclusions regarding the whole lot. There was no need to waste more time with them. Yet his superiors were sending a second Observer to join him on this assignment. What did they still hope to find? Some species that had, against all probability, managed to make an intellectual leap beyond the realm of the mediocre? A miracle? Such was the stuff of fantasy, not empirical fact.

He sighed, part of himself automatically observing the Klingon tactical officer as he programmed the shuttlecraft's coordinates into the weapons systems. Now the Observer would have to go about training the newcomer to assist him for an assignment in which assistance was entirely unnecessary. No doubt the young novice would be brimming with untenable new ideas to "improve" procedure, when the status quo served perfectly well, and had for centuries. It was all rather annoying—though, of course, the Observer would never presume to tell his superiors that.

"Target locked in, sir," the tactical officer reported.

"Fire," the captain commanded. The bridge crew watched impassively as twin bolts of disruptor fire burst from the Bird-of-Prey's wing cannons and disintegrated the shuttlecraft.

The captain turned away from the viewscreen, and the sight of the shattered particles of the shuttle spinning away into space. "Turn about," he said gruffly. "Make for Qo'noS, warp five."

With the ease of long practice, the Observer smoothly altered his host's memories before vacating the body. As he watched the Klingon craft jump to warp, he was already looking ahead to the arrival of the new Observer. He had no intention of being persuaded by an over-eager apprentice to deviate from protocol, no matter how many alleged "enhancements" the youngster came prepared to implement. Let him question and harangue and generally make a nuisance of himself, before he learned to toe the line. In the end, they would both be observing the same things, and coming to the same conclusions. Wouldn't they?

* * *

Chapter Eight: _Harrad-Sar_

The Tellarite slave trader snuffled indifferently at the plate of sweetmeats that Navaar presented to him, then squinted across the opulently appointed entertaining room to Harrad-Sar. "What about that Archer incident?" he asked.

His reedy, shrill voice brought the conversation in the crowded room to a standstill. Harrad-Sar took his time before looking up, holding out his glass to Maras, who refilled it with Saurian brandy.

"There's been talk among the slavers," the Tellarite continued, when Harrad-Sar did not respond immediately. "And the distributors." Patience wasn't a quality found in abundance among Tellarites.

Navaar slinked to Harrad-Sar's side, holding a plate of delicacies at his elbow. She nuzzled his ear. "What did I tell you?" she purred.

He ran a finger along her flawless cheek. "You are wise as always, Mistress." Navaar had predicted that the Tellarite would be the one to bring up the Starfleet-incited riot at the processing station on Verex III. The man had lost valuable product when Archer's ship, _Enterprise_, had descended upon the auction and stolen Starfleet's former property back again. Though months had passed, the Tellarite had refused to let the matter rest.

Harrad-Sar selected a morsel from the plate and held it to Navaar's lips. She accepted his gift, caressing his fingers with her tongue as she took the bit of food into her exquisite mouth. He found it almost impossible to remain focused on the task at hand...but he did not wish to displease his Mistress.

He turned at last to face the twitchy Tellarite, his olive face looking bored as he sipped his wine. "Archer ceased to be an issue long ago." His silky basso voice, though soft, carried to every corner of the room. "You and all other buyers were generously compensated for the loss of product. The Orion Syndicate pays its debts."

"Compensation is not our concern," the Tellarite said peevishly.

"'Our'?" Harrad-Sar echoed blandly.

Whether because of too much wine or the headiness of being the center of attention, the Tellarite was becoming bold. "It's about confidence!" he retorted. "If Archer and his ship could so easily penetrate the defenses of one of your own strongholds, nullify the safeguards around your property, and spirit away whatever slaves they pleased, what is to prevent them from doing it again? At _any_ Orion safe haven? What's stopping them?" He sneered at Harrad-Sar. "The Syndicate?" He turned to the other guests—his fellow dealers and distributors. "They could put us _all_ out of business."

Harrad-Sar was well aware of the talk. Of those who spread idle gossip, whether for good or ill, the men assembled in this room were the worst offenders. Their wagging tongues, endlessly re-telling the tale of Verex III, had resulted in a dropoff of Syndicate sales over the past month, a flattening out of contracts, a distastefully high level of caution regarding Starfleet—especially Archer and _Enterprise_—and a distressing erosion of confidence in the Syndicate's heretofore unquestioned dependability. Something had to be done to solidify the Syndicate's reputation, and quickly. A response had been devised, but it might be months before it could be put into play; a psychological turnaround was needed _now_. And what better way to reassure clients and business associates in short order than by planting a hopeful seed in the ears of this pack of disgruntled rumormongers?

Navaar moved behind him. He could feel the heat of her, her breath tickling his skin, her fingers light upon his powerful arms as she reached up on tiptoe to whisper against the back of his neck. "Make me proud, Harrad-Sar."

Now was the time to prove himself worthy of his Mistress's trust. He crossed the room to stand before the Tellarite. The sniveling trader shrank back, his courage melting away in the shadow of the Orion slaver's towering, formidable presence.

"The Orion Syndicate existed long before Starfleet came into being, and will be here long after Starfleet has passed away," Harrad-Sar said calmly. "Did you really think we would allow this slight to go unanswered?"

There was a rustle of anticipation among the other guests. The Bolian looked up from his specially prepared dish of rancid heart of targ. "What are you planning?" he inquired eagerly. "A raid to recover your stolen slaves?"

Harrad-Sar allowed himself a small smile. "Our aim is considerably larger."

The slavers exchanged curious looks. The Finnean blurted out, "The starship itself? Is that what you're after? That's it, isn't it?"

Harrad-Sar said nothing, but his smile widened as he took a healthy swig of his drink.

"Think of the risk!" the Arkonian hissed, as he accepted a carafe from D'Nesh of the special liquid his body craved. "We'd have all of Starfleet down on our heads."

"Think of the price a ship like that would fetch on the open market," one of the Nausicaans countered, stroking his tusks thoughtfully.

His partner nodded. "We could sell the technology piecemeal. It would bring even more."

Harrad-Sar held up a hand, chuckling. "Gentlemen, such talk is premature. Suffice to say that we will be sending a clear message to Starfleet..._and_ Archer: You cheat the Orion Syndicate at your peril."

The Arkonian's suspicious growl became an appreciative rumble. "To humble the 'hero' Archer..." He drew the human's name out disdainfully, and everyone laughed. "That would be sweet retribution."

The Tellarite, true to form, remained stubbornly pessimistic. "It may be months before an opportunity arises to seize his ship."

Harrad-Sar leaned down until he was eye-to-eye with the furry, snout-nosed wing-slug. The Tellarite froze, too frightened by his gargantuan host's sudden proximity to withdraw. "The buyer with the advantage can afford to be patient," Harrad-Sar said, pitching his voice loudly enough for all to hear.

The Tellarite managed a shaky nod. "Of course," he squeaked meekly. "Of course."

Harrad-Sar straightened, raising his glass to the rest of his guests. "Worry no more about Archer or Starfleet," he said with smooth dismissiveness. "Enjoy the food, the wine—and the entertainment." Setting down his drink, he clapped twice, and the musicians in the corner of the room struck up a lively, sensuous melody. The three Mistresses, who had been circulating among the guests, moved sinuously to the center of the room and began a hypnotic dance. The slavers watched the three spectacular beauties, transfixed, their refreshments immediately forgotten.

As Navaar undulated gracefully between her sisters, she caught Harrad-Sar's eye and smiled at him...the transcendent smile she gave him when he had performed a task to her liking. He felt such a surge of pride at her good favor that he nearly allowed it to escape into the public eye. But it would not do for him to appear a giddy young thrall who had just pleased his Mistress. With an effort, he maintained his expression of privileged self-satisfaction, and settled for an inward sigh of relief. The plan had gone even better than she had predicted. Mistress Navaar was uncanny in the way she knew how men would behave...almost as if she could read the future.

Knowing what the Syndicate was planning for _Enterprise_ and her captain, Harrad-Sar already felt a bit sorry for Archer. An alpha male such as that one was bound to be humbled by what awaited him. If they even allowed him to live.

Such was the price for defying the Syndicate.

-tbc-


	5. Part V

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

_**Please note the rating for this installment of the story.**_

Rating: Chapter Ten is rated R for an interlude of strong sexual content.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

A/N: Thank you again for your reviews. They are always appreciated.

* * *

**Part V **

Chapter Nine: _Soong_

As the chronometer clicked to 0600, Arik Soong sat cross-legged on his bed, gazing at a patch of blank wall at the opposite end of his cell. Soong had performed this activity every morning, at the same time, for several weeks now. To any observer, he appeared to be meditating. Jordan, the guard stationed in the corridor during the graveyard shift, hardly paid attention to him any longer.

Soong wasn't meditating.

This morning, he was running through the myriad calculations he'd accumulated, selecting the specific bits of information he wanted and committing them to a page of his photographic memory earmarked for retrieval when Dr. Phlox of the good ship _Enterprise_ came to visit him later today. For that conversation, there could be no written list for Soong to simply hand over to Phlox; that was prohibited. Besides, Phlox was the only "official" researcher on this project; Soong was merely the great and powerful Oz hidden away behind the curtain...or in this case, the security doors. Thus the clandestine assistance. Fortunately, Soong had become accustomed to figuring everything out in his head. It was a bit more cumbersome, but no less effective in the end.

He couldn't help but wonder how Commander Lorian had known so far in advance that there was any point to working out a safer method for creating a human/Vulcan hybrid child. Weeks ago, when the commander and his delectable Lieutenant Archer had paid their first visit to Soong to query him about the matter, T'Pol was already married to her tradition-bound (i.e., boring, from what Soong had seen of him) Vulcan, with Tucker relegated to perpetual platonic status.

Soong had never heard of Vulcans possessing precognitive abilities. Lorian might simply be extraordinarily insightful, making use of a blend of Vulcan logic and human intuition. Whatever it was, he had somehow anticipated that T'Pol's husband would have a change of heart so profound that he would be compelled to release her from their marriage, thus opening the door for her and Tucker to take up where they'd left off.

It was the second time Commander Lorian had surprised Soong, which irritated him quite a lot.

He supposed it was the duty of all children to defy their parents at some point...though Lorian's Terrible Twos had lain dormant for a century, until he'd shot his father, betrayed his captain, and almost destroyed the earlier incarnation of his own ship. Eh, no one was perfect.

_Not even my children,_ Soong thought with a sigh. _Even when they were convinced of their perfection._

He still remembered his sharp, sickening shock when he had seen Malik on Cold Station 12. Why hadn't he realized it earlier? Oh, there had been signs, even on Trialas IV, when Malik was a child. The boy had always suffered from a distressing lack of compassion for his brothers and sisters. And even before Soong had been captured and forced to abandon the children, he had noticed young Malik going about achieving his goals, whether scholastic or extracurricular, with a ruthlessness that was chilling.

Soong hadn't wanted to believe Malik was a hopeless cause. He had been determined to teach away the boy's flaws, love them away, deny them away. He spent ten years with those children, their formative first years, passing on all the positive values he could. Still, Malik and so many of the others grew up to become cold, empty monsters—superhuman, but not humane. Why? Was there a genetic marker for evil? Had Malik and the others been missing the genetic markers for kindness, or empathy?

And why not Persis or Udar? They showed sympathy and mercy, and were murdered for it. Soong could still feel the ache of their loss.

Perhaps it was as simple as...every individual had the potential for good or evil, and the free will to choose.

Soong had thought himself capable of designing a better human being than nature could. Malik and his ilk, though, twisted their superiority into hubris...and all of Soong's delusions of godhood had drained away when he saw what such notions could do to a man without the temperance of morality, or a worthy goal.

Natural selection occurred for a reason, after all...tiny steps, a bit of adjustment here and there to determine what worked best in the large scheme of things, rather than a sledge hammer of evolutionary overthrow to effect change in one fell swoop.

Soong chuffed under his breath in disgust. He recalled running across evidence, while researching different fertility treatments, of far too many people mucking around with "unconventional" methods...the more unsavory individuals, the less successful techniques. There were always corner-cutters scuttling around in the shadows, choosing "faster" or "cheaper" over "best." Sloppy results, usually.

His thoughts strayed back to the records he'd seen of the painstaking years of research done by Phlox—the other Phlox, from the alternate timeline. Even that upstanding Denobulan, armed with his comparatively advanced skills, had encountered difficulties and heartbreaking failures before bringing Lorian to term. It would be different, of course, now that Soong was spearheading the research. He would make certain that a reliable method of human/Vulcan reproduction was perfected. He would do it for the sake of the other Tucker and T'Pol, and the children they had lost...and for his own lost ones, especially Udar and Persis, and Malik, even Malik. A part of Soong grieved for him most of all.

With an effort, he refocused. Where was he?...oh yes, the T-cells. Tricky, those rejection mechanisms. The other Phlox had had trouble with the human and Vulcan systems treating each other as enemy invaders. How utterly poetic, considering the sniping Soong had seen between Tucker and T'Pol. _You only hurt the one you love_... It would be a challenge, finessing the genetic instructions to recognize the alien cells as friendly, without compromising the immune system.

Soong knew he wouldn't be permitted very much time with Phlox, but it should be enough to pass along a sufficient amount of preliminary "feedback" to keep the doctor plenty occupied while _Enterprise_ went gallivanting off to the Barrens, at the beck and call of Emory Erickson.

Soong had already heard that Hero Of The Universe Archer was quite out of sorts about being robbed of the chance to return to the emancipated ex-Expanse and parade through the streets of victory, as it were. He wouldn't have the opportunity to act as the Great Diplomat with his former enemies the Xindi, and whip up some kind of détente; the job had gone instead to the captain of the NX-02, Hernandez. That must smart.

So _Enterprise_ was headed for the Barrens—and for what? "Sub-quantum transportation"? Utter nonsense. Anyone with half a brain could do the math and see that the concept was flawed. Soong wondered what old Erickson was really up to, and why he needed an NX-class to do it. The Barrens was where his son had vanished, and where Erickson had had his own horrific transporter accident. Apparently Soong wasn't the only man mourning the loss of a child. A pity the old man didn't see what was right in front of him. Soong had seen news photos and footage of Erickson with his daughter over the years; the girl was invariably focused on her father, while he rarely acknowledged her at all. The old fool must be blind, or blinded, by whatever awaited in the Barrens.

Maybe Erickson would have better luck than Soong had. Beginning with lies, though, didn't bode well for the man. Soong saw rough seas ahead for Captain War Hero.

Or...maybe there _was_ something to it, and _Enterprise_ was preparing to make history. Perhaps Erickson had made some sort of breakthrough that hadn't occurred to Soong.

Soong laughed out loud. He couldn't help it—the notion was too, too funny. He opened his eyes and saw Jordan looking curiously at him from his post in the corridor. Soong raised an eyebrow in casual challenge, and the guard quickly found a corner of the floor inordinately interesting. Soong went back to his placid contemplation of the wall, returning his attention to his calculations...and his musings.

* * *

Chapter Ten: _Shran_

Even after so many years, Shran still missed his brother.

As he strode through the _Kumari's_ empty corridors in the early-morning quiet, Shran reflected on the remarkable tenacity of grief and injustice. Solas had died decades ago, but his loss seemed no closer to being laid to rest. Shran had idolized his brother—a natural leader, a brilliant tactician, possessed of potential that would have led to a stellar military career in the Imperial Guard, and likely to the Governorship itself...had he lived.

Shran entered the observation room, crossing to a low table in front of the forward viewport and setting out the items he had brought: a simple ceremonial candle, a bottle of Andorian ale, and two glasses. From underneath his uniform, he pulled out a small vial of blue liquid he wore on a thin lanyard around his neck. After Solas had been killed, his companions had borne home a measure of his blood for the Wall of Heroes...and they had given this vial to Solas's bereft younger brother as well. Shran wore it as a talisman—a piece of the warrior he would always idolize.

As soon as he was of age, Shran had enlisted in the Imperial Guard, taking it upon himself to carry on in his brother's name. He had worked twice as hard as the spoon-fed commissioned officers, clawing his way up the ranks, earning a field commission, then his own command. He didn't feel he'd come close to filling Solas's boots until he was awarded the _Kumari_—the flagship of the Imperial Guard.

Solas would have reached the same heights in a fraction of the time, of course. Shran smiled at the thought as he fingered the vial in his hand.

Outside the viewport, he could see the ice-blue orb of Andoria's parent planet in the distance, bisected by its majestic rings. Soon the _Kumari_ would be in orbit around her homeworld, after being on patrol for months. The time had come for Shran to pay tribute to his fallen brother, as he did each time he returned home.

He lit the candle, poured a glass of ale, then held the vial up, over the ritual flame, in sight of the moon where he and Solas were born. "We are near the ice of home, brother," he said into the silence. He raised his drink in solemn salute to the empty second glass, toasting the man who was not there to drink with him.

Behind him, the door to the observation room slid open. Shran paused, surprised and a little annoyed at the intrusion; he had not expected any of the crew to be stirring at such an early hour.

He turned to find Lieutenant Talas standing in the doorway, her antennae hanging low in chagrin. "Forgive me, Commander," she said hastily. "I've disturbed you." She was already turning to leave.

"Wait," he said.

Talas stopped. Shran noted that she wasn't dressed for duty; she was wearing a bodysuit of soft, clingy material that hugged her every curve in a way far different from her form-fitting uniform. Her hair was uncharacteristically tousled, as if she had just risen from her bed; it made her already uncommon beauty even more pleasing.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I couldn't sleep," she replied. "Coming here often settles me."

He gestured with his glass. "Come in, then."

She stepped into the room, letting the door shut behind her. She reached for the locking mechanism and secured the door. "So no one else will intrude."

Shran nodded, saying nothing. He could not ever remember being alone with his tactical officer while off-duty. Even with the expanse of the room between them, he felt vaguely intimidated by her. He knew part of the reason was because she was highborn; likely he would never get over his self-consciousness regarding his working-class roots. But he had crossed paths with patricians in the Guard before, countless times. Typically, highborn families sent their sons for a short stint in the military; the youths could then boast to females of having been warriors, as they went on to much safer, cushioned lives in politics. Patrician women, though, were uncommon in the Guard, and highborn women who made careers in the military were as rare as a warm breeze.

Talas's family, however, was crowded with them. Men and women of her house had been a staple in the Guard for generations, serving out of a sense of duty and honor. Talas had proven herself to Shran as a superior warrior from the moment she had joined the _Kumari's_ crew. Her combination of intelligence, resourcefulness, and beauty made him feel a fool around her, except in matters of the Guard. If he let her, she would captivate him. But he knew that such an extraordinary female could never see any worth in him, an unsophisticated working-class soldier, other than his skills as a fighter and a leader, perhaps. He was a bull while she was a banta bird, her graceful snow-white wings noiseless in flight, never touching the ground he slogged on.

Talas indicated the flickering candle and the vial in Shran's hand. "Whom do you honor, Commander?"

Shran had told few others of his loss—and never subordinates. However, Talas had performed well these last few months, and had shown cunning and bravery in the Expanse. "My brother," he replied, turning toward the viewport once more. "He was a lieutenant in the Guard. He was killed when I was a boy."

She came closer. "May I join you in paying him respect?"

Shran passed his glass to her, pouring a second measure of ale for himself. Then he tipped the vial over the candle, letting a single drop of Solas's blood fall into the flame. "You are remembered this day, Solas," he intoned softly. They both watched the blue drop sizzle and disappear into the fire. As Shran raised his glass to his lips, he muttered, "Someday I shall be a fit sibling to you." He tossed back his ale in a single swallow, feeling it scald its way down his throat.

Beside him, Talas, also drinking her toast, lowered her glass in surprise. "You are already a worthy successor to your brother, Commander."

"No," Shran said irritably. Whether because of memories of Solas, or the nearness of Talas, he was feeling particularly inadequate at the moment. "I lack his instincts, his finesse. I am but a pale, clumsy shadow of him."

"You're wrong!" she exclaimed.

Shran scowled at her. "Excuse me, Lieutenant?"

Talas blushed bright blue under his intense gaze, but she did not turn away. "Forgive me, Commander, for my bluntness, but...I've watched you since the first day I came aboard the _Kumari_. You have the quickest mind of any leader I have followed. Your boldness is thrilling to witness." Her eyes began to shine, and her voice took on a ring of admiration. "Your courage and sense of honor are standards to which I aspire."

She was moving nearer, closing the scant distance between them. "I have always held you in high esteem, Commander...more than that. You have a fire in your belly that too many men lack." Her voice dropped, becoming low and intense. "I would see more of that fire." Her eyes were burning with an unmistakable fire of their own now.

Shran could hardly believe what was happening. Could Talas actually find him attractive? Desirable?

"You forget yourself, Lieutenant," he said, his voice hoarse in the stillness.

She didn't flinch. "Then reprimand me."

They were close, so close now. He could feel her heat. He had dreamed of this woman—restless, erotic dreams that left him shaking with their intensity. He had never dared to believe the dreams could become reality. "If this is some sort of game, Talas, you will pay dearly."

"No game." She brought a hand up, stroking one of his sensitive antennae with her long, graceful fingers. The sensation nearly drove him wild with desire. "Show me your fire," she whispered against his mouth.

He seized her in his arms and kissed her, feeling her hot mouth eagerly opening to his. She tasted rich and exotic to him as their tongues battled each other. She twined her fingers through his hair, tickling the base of his antennae, as she nipped and sucked at his bottom lip.

He swept the low table clear and lowered her onto it, continuing his assault on her mouth. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, trapping him against her as he ripped the flimsy fabric of her bodysuit open from neck to groin. She was naked underneath. As he cupped her firm breasts in his hands, she moaned into his mouth, squeezing the bulge in front of his uniform trousers, drawing an answering groan from him.

Shran stood up, stripping away enough of his uniform to get his trousers open. Talas lay on the table, propped up on her elbows, smiling invitingly. She was an exquisite sight. As she watched him, she slid a hand between her legs and idly stroked there, and it was almost too much for him to bear. She licked her lips in anticipation as he lowered himself over her.

He entered her hard, and she cried out with unbridled satisfaction, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. He began a swift, steady rhythm as he worshipped her breasts with his lips and tongue. Growling with pleasure, Talas took his head in her hands, stroking his antennae, sending jolts of raw lust through him.

She sat up, pushing her weight against him, and Shran fell to the deck, taking her with him. Then he was flat on his back and she was riding him with abandon, her hair flying around her flushed face in a lovely tangle, her breasts swaying in rhythm with her rocking body. He thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He pulled her down for a long, wet kiss, thrusting his tongue deep in her mouth.

As she lay atop him, Talas drew her legs together, tucking them between his. Every sensation was magnified as he moved now—the pleasure was indescribable. She gripped his shoulders for leverage, her face poised over his, her expression one of sublime ecstasy.

They panted in unison, their breath mingling, their pleasure rising together. Shran slid his hands underneath Talas's shredded bodysuit, around her hips, gripping her smooth, muscled backside. She began to shudder as she moved with increasing urgency, whimpering, then wailing—and finally she exploded, thrashing uncontrollably on top of him.

Shran rolled her on her back, pulling her legs up, propping her ankles on his shoulders, going even deeper. Her rhythmic cries began to rise again, taking his own desire with them. He feverishly kissed her mouth and breasts, then reached up to fondle her antennae. Talas stiffened, her back arching—and she climaxed again, bucking wildly beneath him. Shran felt himself tumbling over the precipice as well. With a bellow, he shuddered powerfully through his own release.

He collapsed on top of her, spent. He hadn't had a lovemaking experience this exciting in years. As he caught his breath, he raised himself up to look at her...hiding his apprehension, wondering if he had met her expectations. Talas smiled at him, pulling his head down to kiss him slowly, sensuously, her tongue sliding along his, sending aftershocks of pleasure rippling through him.

Finally he drew away, savoring her taste on his lips. Talas regarded him with a raised eyebrow. "Am I to be reprimanded, then?" she asked.

Shran studied her through narrowed eyes. "Upon further reflection...I find your bluntness to be quite stimulating."

Talas chuckled low in her throat, and he smiled.

-tbc-


	6. Part VI

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

* * *

Part VI

Chapter Eleven: _Braax_

As the airlock hatch of the Illyrian research vessel _Rykos_ rolled open, Braax stepped forward to greet the rotund cargo ship captain who emerged. "Welcome," Braax said with weary relief. "We're grateful for your assistance."

"Greetings to you, friend!" the other man replied in an amiable, booming voice. "Captain Braax, is it? I'm Jholli. We Xythians are always glad to help a ship in need."

Braax was somewhat taken aback. The _Rykos_ had not had an easy time of it, but she hardly looked as if she were ready to fall apart. "How did you know that—"

The Xythian cut him off with a wave of his meaty hand. "A lone, tiny vessel in this barren stretch of space so far between systems, limping along at a sludgeworm's pace? Such a sight is akin to an emergency distress call." He peered into the dimly-lit corridor. "You're in a bad way, I see." He smiled wryly. "Actually, I can't see much at all."

Braax realized that Jholli must be practically blind in the low lighting. The passengers and crew of the _Rykos_ had long ago become accustomed to it. "We've been conserving power as much as possible," he explained, "to ensure enough for our journey home."

"Surely you must not be far, if you're traveling at impulse," Jholli said reasonably.

Braax's expression darkened. "We have no choice in the matter. Our warp coil was stolen."

The Xythian harrumphed. "Conscienceless vermin, these marauders."

The Illyrian hesitated. "They weren't marauders...exactly," he admitted. "But they might as well have been. We've been traveling at full impulse for months, and we're not even a third of the way home."

"My sympathies!" Jholli exclaimed. He clapped Braax on the back. "But you need worry no longer about getting home. We'll give you a lift the rest of the way, eh? We have plenty of food to spare, and room for you and your crew to stretch your legs. I imagine you could use the change of scenery."

Braax nodded gratefully. "And a change of diet." He grimaced. "Everyone is sick of those ration packs."

Jholli squinted at him in the dimness. "Ration...?"

"Those bane-swine who stranded us," Braax said irritably. "They left food and supplies when they stole the warp coil."

The Xythian looked bemused. "Odd thieves indeed, to leave payment for what they stole."

"They cannot pay back the six months they robbed from us!" Braax declared forcefully. "We were cast adrift, cut off from our families! My first officer, Rossa—his wife has had their child by now, but she doesn't know if her husband is alive or dead. Seeria, one of our research assistants, was on her first assignment—her parents must be consumed with worry for her. Dulow has been ill for weeks, but our medic hasn't been able to determine the cause. The infirmary doesn't have the facilities for proper testing—"

"Easy, friend," Jholli said reassuringly. "I meant no offense. Of course you've had your share of suffering." He pulled out a small hand communicator and spoke into it. "Chandra, this is Jholli. Have Lyro and Dr. Sola come over here." As he tucked the device away again, he explained to Braax, "My engineer and crew physician. Perhaps they can help with your power problem and your sick crewman."

"Thank you." Braax took a deep breath to compose himself. "Our mission was only supposed to last for three weeks." He rubbed his bleary eyes. Spirits, he was tired...so tired. "Three weeks, but we've been out here for six months now." His voice hardened. "If I didn't need to get my people home, I'd take a warp coil from you and go find that bastard Archer myself."

"Archer?" Jholli said in surprise. "The human? Commander of _Enterprise?"_

Braax nodded. "You've heard of him this far out?"

"Everyone in the region has heard of him." Two of Jholli's crew emerged from the airlock at that moment. He signaled them to wait, then drew Braax off to one side. In an uncharacteristically low voice, he said, "If Archer is the one who marooned you, I can understand your disgruntlement with him. But a word of advice: consider keeping it to yourself, at least until you know you're among friends."

Braax regarded him quizzically. "Why?"

The Xythian shrugged, almost apologetically. "Because virtually every race for two thousand light-years and more regards him as something of a hero."

Braax stared at him, dumbfounded. "What nonsense is this?"

"He hasn't heard, then," murmured the engineer, Lyro, to Jholli.

Braax began leading the trio of Xythians down the shadowy corridor, toward the infirmary. "If I'd heard that, I wouldn't have believed it."

Sola, the physician, spoke up. "But surely, in the past you've run across sections of space that would tear through your ship as if it were putty?"

The Illyrian shuddered at the memory. "Yes, when we first began our research mission. We were thankful to leave that area behind months ago."

"You're mistaken," countered Lyro. "It wasn't you that left the space; it was the space itself that changed."

"There used to be machines all over," Jholli continued. "Spheres the size of planets that were reconfiguring space, turning it into something unlivable for any of us. The cursed things had been here for a thousand years, from what we heard. A few hundred years more, and we would all have been wiped out, every last race of us. All because some space-hungry aliens from another dimension wanted to take up residence here. But Archer and the Xindi—you know of the Xindi, don't you?"

"Archer spoke of them," Braax said dismissively. "He kept going on about his mission to stop them...he said the Xindi had declared war on the humans."

"True enough," Jholli acknowledged. "But somewhere along the way, Archer struck up a truce with the Xindi—some of them, anyway, I'm still not clear on the details—and they destroyed the spheres. Space turned back to normal again, which got rid of those aliens who wanted to take over."

They arrived at the infirmary. As Braax gestured Sola inside, he regarded Jholli with ill-concealed resentment. "Don't tell me," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Naturally, people all over are _grateful_."

The Xythian captain looked neither defensive nor fawning. "Archer and those Xindi, they saved the region, maybe the whole universe, is what we hear."

"That's just marvelous," Braax muttered sourly. "He was probably arriving home to a victorious welcome while we were still drifting in space, making repairs to the power junction he destroyed."

"I wouldn't know about that," Jholli replied. "All I heard was that he lost a third of his crew. Twenty-six, I think it was."

A sudden chill went through Braax. He stared at the Xythian captain. "Twenty-six...?"

Jholli regarded him with polite concern. "You haven't lost any of your people, have you?"

Mutely, Braax shook his head. His own ship's complement numbered all of nineteen.

"That's a relief," Jholli said with a smile. "But then again, you mentioned having those supplies, didn't you...ration packs and whatnot."

_Twenty-six dead_... What if Braax had lost a third of his own people? The idea was too ghastly even to imagine. "I've cursed him and his crew for months," he murmured. "I've wished all sorts of terrible fates on them for what they did to us...but I never thought..."

"You didn't know," Jholli said gently. "You were thinking of your crew, which is as it should be." He put a hand lightly on the Illyrian's arm. "Archer wronged you, to be sure. But he was working to save his whole world. And mine...and yours."

Braax looked away. _Twenty-six...with spouses and parents and children, just as we have_... He didn't want to care. But he was Illyrian—he couldn't turn a blind eye or a cold heart to the suffering of innocents.

"If you'll point the way, Captain," Lyro told him, "I'll get started on your systems."

Numbly, Braax waved a hand further down the corridor. "All the way aft, and down a level. Tell them I sent you."

As Lyro nodded and headed away, Braax turned back toward the infirmary, where the Xythian doctor, Sola, stood in deep discussion with the ship's medic at the bedside of the sick crewman, Dulow.

Jholli leaned against the doorway. "There's another way to look at this," he told Braax. "That warp coil Archer took from you...if it helped him to accomplish what he did, then that makes you and your crew heroes as well, in a sense. Doesn't it?"

Braax's view of the infirmary faded away, replaced by the memory of a dark, smoke-filled engine room, the hum of weapons fire, the distant roar of explosions...and the face of a man he had thought of for months as his sworn enemy. Their parting words echoed in his ears, across space and time...

_Why are you doing this?_

_Because I have no choice._

Braax had assumed then that the look on Archer's face was the cold, selfish disregard of a thief. Now he wondered if that expression had been something entirely different. Perhaps...regret.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: _Khouri_

Susan Khouri recorded the monitor readings from the gestation chamber, noting the time on her chart: 0602, Adjusted Lunar Time.

It felt wonderful to be _valued_ again—not simply as a CNA, though her nurse's aide skills were part of the reason she was here—but as the bioengineering expert she had trained to be. She knew all about Paxton's reasons for creating Terra Prime...preserving the purity of the human race, preventing the encroachment of aliens, et cetera, et cetera, and so forth. Susan had a much more pragmatic reason for throwing in with the organization: job security. She was no xenophobe; she was simply sick of being passed up for jobs in favor of a Vulcan or Denobulan for no reason other than the assumption by the people doing the hiring that the Alien du Jour was better qualified. Specialized careers such as Susan's, in bioengineering research, took years of schooling and experience to establish. To put in the effort, only to be reduced to med tech work, forced to turn her occasional CNA gig into a backup career to supplement her income. At least there were no Vulcans competing for child-care or NICU positions.

She'd kept up her tech work, gritting her teeth as she did the scut work for the offworlders who had been handed the research positions she'd wanted, in order to stay abreast of advances in the field, just in case she saw an opportunity. When Terra Prime approached her, Susan had been practical, concentrating on the support system and job contacts the Primers provided, while politely listening to—and ignoring—their proselytizing. And when Dr. Mercer came calling, offering a unique opportunity to rejoin her field of expertise, Susan had jumped at it.

One whirlwind trip to the Moon later, she was at Orpheus Mining Colony, getting acquainted with her new assignment: a slapdash human/Vulcan clone job forced into an accelerated gestation of only five months, ready to be delivered in less than a week. Obviously, the genetic engineers had done a sloppy job, judging from the baby's depressed lymphatic system and underdeveloped lungs.

Mercer had filled Susan in on Terra Prime's grand plan to show the world the baby as an example of the folly of allowing the human gene pool to be diluted by interbreeding with aliens. Then, after Susan had asked for the real reason the child had been created, and she had refused to budge until she got a straight answer, Mercer had locked the lab door and told her what the rank-and-file Primers didn't know: the details of Paxton's disease, and his hope that the baby's hybrid blood factors would aid in the development of a more effective treatment than the Rigellian gene therapy to which his system was growing resistant.

What an irony that the very aliens the great John Frederick Paxton preached against, day in and day out, were the reason he hadn't dropped dead by age twenty.

Susan glanced into the metal and glassteel enclosure, where the baby floated in her artificial womb of amniotic fluid. —No, not "baby." Creature. Unholy mutant. Vessel for generating blood. Political tool. Weapon in the war to save humanity. Expendable thing. That was the way Paxton thought of her, at any rate. Susan would have to remember that.

She wondered who the parents were. The contributor of the human DNA could be a Primer, but the Vulcan DNA had to have been stolen...from a medical facility, most likely. Susan couldn't imagine a Vulcan cooperating with such a dishonorable scheme as this one.

Through the clear fluid in the chamber, she could see the child's features. They didn't have the angular lines of a Vulcan; they were more human, suggesting Anglo-Saxon ancestry. Had the baby's makers selected for those elfin ears deliberately? Susan doubted they had known what the hell they were doing. Still, despite their obvious ineptitude, the result was delicately beautiful.

As Susan watched, the "unholy mutant" brought one tiny hand to her mouth and began sucking her thumb.

Life for this fragile pixie would be a battle for survival. Days from now, when she was "born," a world of pain awaited, in which every breath would be a struggle, exposure to any germ a life-and-death crisis. But Susan had been surprised countless times by the determination of a tiny preemie to live, despite overwhelming odds.

Paxton wouldn't care whether the baby lived or died, once he had his precious blood samples and he'd made his showy statement about the evil of aliens soiling the purity of humanity. Even Mercer wouldn't care; Susan had figured out after only a day that his allegiance was to Paxton more than to his own Hippocratic oath.

Susan leaned close to the glassteel, until she was inches away from the sleeping child. _I__ care,_ she conveyed silently to the baby. _As long as I don't let on to anyone, we'll be fine, you and I._

The baby stirred, her thumb slipping out of her mouth as she turned, until she was facing Susan directly. Susan could almost imagine that the child had actually heard her thoughts, and was reacting to them.

It made Susan even more determined to watch over this tiny innocent, and do her utmost to keep the child alive, healthy, and safe. To any observer, Susan would be performing a job, like any other job. Her charge was simply a beautiful, half-alien, priceless-blood-producing, future _casus belli_. No problem. Piece of cake.

Floating in her liquid dreamland, the sleeping child smiled.

-tbc-


	7. Part VII

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

_**Please note the rating for this installment of the story.**_

Rating: Chapter Fourteen is rated R for sexual content.

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

* * *

Part VII

Chapter Thirteen: _Jhamel_

Gareb was trapped, enclosed in a stifling blackness that had nothing to do with being sightless. His hands were bound, each finger trussed separately, the confining lanyards trailing away. He couldn't move—he could hardly breathe. His only companions were evil and death. He felt alone, so alone.

_Jhamel?_ he called into the darkness. _Help me!..._

-- -- --

Jhamel woke with a start, her breath coming in panicked gasps.

Lissan was with her, holding her hand. _It was only a dream._ The older woman's voice was soft and soothing in Jhamel's mind. _You're safe now._

Jhamel gripped Lissan's steady hand, trying to calm herself. She had been suffering terrible nightmares about her brother ever since his disappearance. Gareb would always be confined in some way, unable to break free. Jhamel felt such hopelessness from him, such black despair. _But the dreams—they all seem so real,_ she protested.

Lissan regarded her with faint reproach. _Jhamel, you are a woman grown, but you sound like a frightened child._

Jhamel set her jaw stubbornly. _Do you remember when I __was__ a child, and I saw the vision of that boy who had wandered to the surface before the ice storm struck? My mother said then that I had the Gift._

Lissan refrained from comment, but Jhamel felt the older woman's patient admonishment nonetheless. _Perhaps Gareb is still alive somewhere,_ Jhamel persisted. _Maybe__ he's trapped in a forgotten cave, living off redbats, unable to summon help._

_Your dreams are your fears talking to you._ Lissan gave her a reassuring smile. _Be at peace about Gareb. Look to the future, rather than dwelling on the past._ She eased Jhamel back down into the bed, then quietly withdrew.

Jhamel lay back, trying to calm herself with thoughts of her future. In a few short months, the community would select the three _shelthreth_ bondmates with whom she was most compatible, and the quad would be joined together in a joyful ceremony, ensuring the continuation of the small, fragile Aenar race. But Jhamel could find no comfort or sleep. The image of Gareb was still too vivid in her mind.

Finally she abandoned her restless attempts to sleep and rose, entering the winding passageways. She didn't know where she was going at first; she simply let her instincts guide her. Soon she found herself down by the frozen lake where she and Gareb had last spent time together. She stood at the edge of the silver-blue expanse, her memories hanging in the air around her like a frosty mist, giving her no feeling of warmth or safety. The lake felt forbidding now.

Plaintively, Jhamel reached out with her mind. _Brother, are you here?_ she asked the frigid stillness. _Did the lake claim you?_ She imagined Gareb at the bottom, wrapped in the claustrophobic forever-cold of death, and she shivered. _Have you been close by all these months, almost close enough for me to touch, yet so alone?_

The only reply she received was silence. The cave was vast, but she felt as though the walls were closing in on her. Quickly, she turned and hurried out of the oppressive place. She needed to be with the others.

As she wound her way through the tunnels that led toward home, Jhamel sensed that her unsettling dreams would follow her. Sleep might come eventually...but there would be no rest, nor escape from her solitude, until she knew the truth about Gareb's fate.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: _Karyn_

The first sensation Karyn felt as she awakened was Lorian's mind entwined with hers, as if they had always been connected, and always would be. As she became more aware of the physical world, she felt his arms around her, his warmth against her, the feel of his heartbeat pulsing at the small of her back and resonating inside her through the bond.

She had dropped off to sleep a little while ago, gloriously spent, spooned in her new husband's embrace after a night of endless hunger and infinite satisfaction, being joined together, body, mind, and soul. She had never experienced anything like it. _The desire of pon farr without the madness,_ Lorian had said to describe it. Karyn smiled as a shiver of remembered pleasure rippled through her. Reflexively, she pushed back against him.

He sighed softly as he nestled in more closely, nuzzling her hair. She felt his lips on the back of her neck, feather-light...and below, she felt him hardening against her.

She pulled his hands up to her breasts and held them there. Lazily, he fondled her, his fingers tracing light, teasing circles. It felt wonderful. Slowly, she began rubbing her backside against him. She felt a tremor of desire shudder through him as he held her more firmly.

His breathing remained slow and even, and the subtle current she felt from him through the bond didn't increase. He was still asleep. The realization aroused her even more.

Smiling to herself, she reached back with one hand, running her fingertips along the sensitive edge of his ear. She heard an answering groan of need from him, low in his throat, fanning the bond to life.

With a soft moan of anticipation, she reached down and guided him inside her. He gasped, flaring to consciousness in her mind. His grip on her tightened as she felt his hunger awakening fully. Then he was making love to her, slow and deep, caressing her with his hands and mind. She lay her head back against his shoulder, luxuriating in the feel of him as he pleasured her.

Through the bond, she could sense his desire as well as her own, building as they moved together. He brought his legs up under hers, cradling her as he carried her higher. As their breath quickened together, he nuzzled her throat, his touch like liquid fire on her skin.

She felt them both rising, floating free, then bursting as one into ecstasy. With an exultant cry, she clutched onto him as she bucked in his embrace, trapped in his lap, feeling the force of his release through every part of her being—the sheer joy of communion, the unbridled rapture, the oneness of minds and hearts intermingling through the bond.

They settled back to solid ground together, still in each other's arms. Karyn felt deliciously warm and sated, and from the pleasant thrum of the bond, she knew Lorian was in the same agreeably satisfied state.

"To what do I owe this memorable awakening, beloved?" he murmured.

She looked coyly over her shoulder at him. "Blame the bond."

He arched an eyebrow playfully. "Thank it, you mean."

She shifted in his embrace, turning to face him. "I have to hand it to the Vulcans. This mating bond must work like gangbusters for helping two emotionally repressed strangers to get past those first awkward moments of newlyweddedness and become more...intimately acquainted."

"For a people accustomed to suppressing emotions, the bond is a logical necessity," he agreed.

She pulled him on top of her. "But do they ever realize how much fun it is?"

Lorian brushed his lips against her temple. "I would think each couple discovers the bond's advantages in due time."

As she settled back, losing herself in him again, Karyn smiled mischievously. _They must be so surprised..._

-tbc-


	8. Part VIII

**First Light  
**by HopefulR

Rating: PG-13 for a bit o' language

Disclaimer: _Star Trek: Enterprise_ is the property of CBS/Paramount. All original material herein is the property of its author.

* * *

Part VIII

Chapter Fifteen: _Kyle_

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Kyle got to the club. She'd never been here at such a godawful early hour before today, but she'd given up trying to sleep. She had spent the night lying in bed, thinking about Jon...remembering the feel of his hand as he caressed her cheek, the warmth of his beautiful green eyes as he smiled at her, the taste of him as he kissed her. Just thinking about it made her tingle all over...and she couldn't help fantasizing about where it might lead. Her bed had never felt so huge and empty, and sleep had been utterly impossible.

She could still hardly believe it had happened.

Squinting into the harsh early morning sunlight as she climbed out of her groundcar, Kyle could almost convince herself that it _had_ been a lovely dream. If anyone had told her twenty-four hours ago that Jonathan Archer, Hero of the Xindi War, savior of humanity, would be looking at _her_ like that...kissing her like _that_...

Ohhh, she was going to be useless today.

Paperwork. She would do paperwork. Boss hated it anyway.

She was surprised to find workmen swarming all over the façade of the club, removing the windows. Had there been another vandalism attack after she had gone home last night? She hadn't left until after 2:30 a.m....

She tracked down the foreman, who was unloading pristine sheets of—holy hell, Callahan had finally gone and sprung for glassteel. Kyle wondered what had changed his mind.

"Good morning," she greeted the foreman. "I'm Miss MacMillan, Mr. Callahan's assistant."

The foreman pulled off his glove to shake her hand. "Morning, ma'am. I'm Sully."

Kyle pointed to the glassteel windows. "Did he call you last night about these? I would've thought they'd be special-order."

"They are, ma'am. Average job takes two weeks to fill, but this was a red-flag." The foreman reached inside his truck and pulled out a clipboard of paperwork. "The work order specified a twenty-four-hour turnaround."

Kyle was mystified. Callahan didn't have pull with any of these glassteel suppliers, or he would have installed the stuff months ago. "Who placed the order?"

Sully scanned the top sheet. "Let's see...order received yesterday, 10 July, 11:42 am...oh, there's a notation here from the purchaser. 'Compliments of J. Archer'." The foreman broke into a grin. "Holy shit—Jonathan Archer? _The_ Jonathan Archer?"

Kyle drew in a soft breath. _Oh my God._ Jon must have called in the order as soon as he left the club yesterday, on his way back to _Enterprise_ to get ready for Lorian and Karyn's wedding. The man had been busy.

To the foreman, she said smoothly, "I trust I can count on your discretion in this matter, Sully?"

"Yeah," the man said quickly. "Yeah, sure." As he paged through the paperwork, he shook his head, still smiling to himself. "Holy shit, Jonathan Archer... Wait, there's something else." He pulled a paper out from the bottom of the pile and handed it to Kyle. "A personal note was added to the work order last night."

As Kyle read the note, she smiled.

_Callahan,  
__You didn't say I couldn't.  
_—_J.A._

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: _Catherine_

Catherine woke as she felt Chuck stirring beside her. He opened his eyes and smiled sleepily. "G'mornin', Beautiful."

She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "G'mornin', hon."

He frowned faintly. "I had the strangest dream."

"Oh?"

"Mmm." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That Vulcan woman on _Enterprise_, the one who's been driving Jon nuts ever since they launched...I dreamed that she'n Trip were married, if you can believe it." He chuckled.

Catherine squinted at her husband. He didn't _look_ as if he were joking.

"They had a son, too." Chuck stifled a yawn. "But he wasn't a little boy—he was grown up, older'n we are, because he was from the past—and the future. At the same time. I didn't really understand that part of the dream." He frowned faintly for a moment, then shrugged. "He was married, too...to Jon's great-granddaughter. She was from the future-past place, too, see. Oh, and get this—Ambassador Cranky was _nice_." He stretched. "Screwiest dream I ever had. I can't believe my little pea brain came up with it."

Catherine stared at him. He was straight-faced, pensively scratching his chin, looking perfectly sincere. Could it be that he actually thought...? "Uh...hon..." she began carefully, "I hate to tell you this, but..." She faltered and stopped, not quite sure how to continue.

Chuck broke into a snicker. "Aw hell, I tried. But your face—it's _priceless_."

She grabbed her pillow and started whaling on him. "Charles Anthony Tucker Junior, you should be _ashamed!_"

Laughing, Chuck caught her by the wrist and disarmed her. Plumping the down-filled weapon, he tucked it behind his head. "C'mon, Cath, it might as well be a dream. If I tried to tell anyone what we found out over the last twenty-four hours, they'd think I was certifiable."

Catherine sat up, arms folded, and regarded him through indignantly narrowed eyes. "Lucky for you it's all Top Secret, so the necessity of keeping your trap shut will spare you from being carted off to the loony bin."

Chuck smiled sweetly at her. "I guess you're still stuck with me, then."

"So how's the baptism of fire coming along?" she asked.

His tongue lolled in his cheek. "I'm still not ready to hold hands around the campfire and sing Kum-Bay-Yah with the whole Vulcan race yet. But seeing those xenophobes hollering outside Starfleet yesterday was..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Scary?" She studied him in silence for a moment. "You never sounded like that, you know."

He seemed subdued. "It doesn't matter whether I did or not." He smiled wanly. "Fortunately for my ego, the Vulcans at the embassy acted pretty stupid about Lorian. I wonder if they realize how much they look like 'phobes themselves. Or whether they even care."

"Maybe this Reformation Jon and Soval were talking about will make a difference," Catherine mused. "I mean...if Vulcans think it's logical to change, they'll change."

Chuck snorted doubtfully.

"It's more than you can say for most humans," Catherine pointed out.

"Trip and T'Pol are gonna have a rough time no matter who we're talkin' about, hon," Chuck said flatly. "As soon as they go public, they'll catch hell. They'll be targets."

Catherine knew he was right, and it troubled her. "They'll handle it," she said firmly, sounding more confident than she felt. "He's a Tucker, after all. T'Pol will be too, soon enough." She fiddled restlessly with her wedding ring. "I just hope that this Starfleet board sees sense and keeps them both on _Enterprise_. I'd hate for them to be separated."

Chuck pulled her down beside him, putting a reassuring arm around her. "Don't fret about that, darlin'," he said calmly. "If there's anything I've learned in the last day, it's that no matter what happens, they'll be together, because of that bond of theirs."

Catherine glanced up at him, surprised by how easily the words came to him. Chuck was settled back against his pillow, eyes shut in peaceful repose. Maybe everything was finally starting to make sense to him.

...Or maybe he was just falling asleep again.

He cracked one eye open. "Not exactly the thickhead you were expecting me to be this morning, am I?"

She broke into a baffled smile. "Now that you mention it..."

He shrugged and replied sagely, "We all have room for enlightenment."

She felt his forehead. "Are you sick or something?"

Chuck gave her a look of exaggerated affront. "Hey!"

Now it was Catherine's turn to chortle. "Priceless."

He looked heavenward in defeat. "I'll get you for that."

She snuggled contentedly against him again. "Seriously, hon, you give me hope. If you've turned into a fan of Vulcan bonding, _miracles_ are possible."

* * *

Epilogue

_0900 hours_

_First Officer's Quarters  
NX-01 Enterprise  
Orbiting Earth_

Trip blinked awake as he heard the soft chime of T'Pol's alarm. With a sigh, he rolled over...and landed unceremoniously on the deck. "Ow!"

A moment later, he saw T'Pol looking down at him over the edge of her bunk. "Are you injured, _t'hai'la?_"

"Only my dignity." Trip felt his naked tailbone gingerly. "We need a bigger bed."

"Agreed." T'Pol sat up, swinging her legs gracefully over the side of the bunk. "However, though Koss released me from our marriage, it would be disrespectful for me to adopt the trappings of cohabitation with another man before the divorce has been officially acknowledged by the Vulcan Social Ministry."

Trip couldn't help feeling a little dejected. "It might end up being a moot point anyway, if Starfleet transfers one of us off _Enterprise_."

"It is our objective to persuade Starfleet not to do so." T'Pol slid off the bed and sat beside Trip, giving him a look of gentle remonstrance. "It would be illogical to presume defeat before we have even made our case to the Board of Inquiry."

He regarded her skeptically. "You know those policy wonks are allergic to change. If they decide we don't fit into one of their ticky-tacky little compartments, that's it."

T'Pol appeared serenely undeterred. "As Captain Archer said, our task will not be an easy one. It may take time to accomplish. But its difficulty makes it no less valid or vital—for us, and those who will follow us."

That made him smile a little. "You think there'll be other Vulcans and humans crazy enough to want to make a life with each other?"

Placidly, she nodded. "It is inevitable that there will be others who will rejoice in the differences between our two peoples, in the same way that we rejoice in each other." Lightly, she cradled his cheek, and he felt the bond whispering to him in welcome. "And if we must be physically parted for a time while we convince Starfleet of the obvious, remember that we will never truly be separated."

Trip drew her into a warm embrace. He felt a soft undercurrent of reassurance from her, dissolving away his lingering concern. "Thanks, darlin'."

T'Pol pulled away, her eyes sparkling. "There is another consideration that may operate in our favor. At Admiral Forrest's memorial yesterday, Ambassador Soval implied that you and I exemplified the goal they both shared: humans and Vulcans working together as equal allies. It may be in Starfleet's best interest to keep us together as a visible representation of the formal alliance now being negotiated between our two worlds."

"You and me—poster children for the alliance?" Trip cocked his head thoughtfully. "Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants." At her frown of confusion, he translated. "A charge. A thrill. A good thing."

She looked uncertain. "If you say so."

He chuckled and got to his feet, drawing her up with him, and started for the bathroom. "We'd better get in the shower. We don't want to miss our command performance."

T'Pol pulled him firmly to a halt. "If we shower together, _t'hai'la_, we will most assuredly be late." She gently disentangled him, ignoring his moan of protest. "I suggest that while you wait, you consider the topics of discussion that might best be brought up at the Board of Inquiry." She gave him a soft kiss on the nose before proceeding on alone.

Trip watched her lovely rear view appreciatively as she entered the bathroom. "In a sec," he murmured. "After I'm done rejoicing..."

-end-


End file.
